Everyday I sat behind the same counter, serving the same pasty faced men and women. Cashing this or withdrawing that. I could count notes with my eyes closed, and tell the difference between a ten and a twenty by touch alone.
Every tick of the clock beside my computer screen echoed in the empty corridors of my mind. "What am I doing here?" I would ask myself every day. "Trying to live your life . . . . to start over." Was the repeated answer.
I didn't believe it anymore. I don't think I ever did.
It was him who pushed me over the edge. Mr. 4pm Thursday. Every week, the same time, the same pale yellow shirt with an old mustard stain just under the collar, the same poorly knotted tie. Him with his pudgy face and expanding waistline. I could smell his sweat dotted skin the moment he walked in and I know I just couldn't take it anymore.
I snapped, and the moment I took that first bite I knew the running was over. I had come home.
I drained them all, one by one, I painted a mural in their honnour on the glass teller windows. I used his blood for it, Mr. 4pm Thursday.
Thankfully it was winter, I could walk out of the front door and into the night. It welcomed me with its howling embrace and I was lost in it, my thirst quenched but my hunger far from satisfied.